The Dark Crusade
by Late to the Party
Summary: Candlekeep, font of knowledge. Charname, inquisitive, curious; Gorion, evasive. What happens when Charname puts two and two together (with the help of Imoen)? He comes to one, undeniable, conclusion: he has the power to save everyone from the Wall of the Faithless. The catch? He has to murder them all to do it. Thus begins the darkest crusade.
1. Part 1, I

Life is pain. That's something I've learnt over and over. Emotional pain, physical pain, spiritual pain. The last is why I began this. Here is a record of my actions, a testimony, if you will. Should I succeed or fail, the truth needs to be written, for there is power in words, power in belief. If enough believe, the truth can be turned to lies, and lies into truth. The biggest lie of all is the Wall of the Faithless. We shall make it disappear, forever. Once we have, all references shall be removed, including this account.

It was during my early years that I first heart mention of the Wall. I heard of the gods and the fate that awaited those who believed, of the blood war and those souls snatched by demons, but it wasn't until later I grasped the significance of such injustice. 'Believe or you will wither'. If the gods are meant to be just and fair, well, the 'good' ones, then what evil is this? To be strong-armed? Are they so insecure, are the planes so finite, that such a device is necessary? For even gods died. How many times have we heard this?

Why should it fall to me to end it? Someone has to, someone needs to. Why not me? After all, I find myself uniquely positioned and as this tale unfolds, perhaps you, too, will draw the same conclusions as I have.


	2. Part 1, II

It began one sunny afternoon. The rain had ceased though the winds had not. I was but a youth at the time, and my time almost ended. Were it not for Imoen who had accompanied me into the bunkhouse, I am certain I never would have written this. A brigand, an assassin, made a play for my life. Perhaps it was the first time, but it would not be the last. His dagger was surprisingly fine, well beyond his means, and Imoen threw a chair into his face. Somehow, we grappled, he, she and I, and between us, we forced him to the ground. Then Imoen demanded answers.

Somehow, I remembered our lessons. I asked which god he served. He hesitated, and I asked if he wished to be devoured by the Wall of the Faithless. Slow terror crept into his dull eyes, even as I warned him it was too late. He revealed everything, admitting he had already drunk the gold. He had slipped in as one of the baggage train for Koveras, a man I had seen more than once. As a visiting scholar, Koveras put many of the monks in Candlekeep, my home, to shame, reciting the prophecies of Alaundo by memory.

As an orphan babe, I was brought to Candlekeep by my mentor. Some years later, Imoen was also brought. There were no other children, but there were younger people. We mingled with them for there was little else to do but drink, study, shirk chores and wonder about life. Indeed, I spent a great deal of time pondering about life but the question that dogged me most was my origin. Perhaps I might have spent less time wondering if Gorion, my mentor, had provided me with an answer that wasn't evasive and only led to more questions but he did not. That question extended to Imoen: who was she that she, too, would be brought to Candlekeep? Neither one of us appeared special, neither one of us was a natural scholar. Gorion never hinted at owing any kind of debt, never spoke of either of our parents' beyond claiming that my mother was, on occasion, a lover to him. What he did speak of was his travels and scuffles, the various scrapes he got himself into. If we were his bastards, I suspect he would have said so, and in truth, neither of us resembled him in the slightest.

When I first relayed these thoughts to Imoen, she shrugged them off but as the years passed, that troubled look returned and she, too, began to search. It was quite by accident we found our answer, for Imoen made a habit of rummaging through Gorion's communiques, though his missives were seldom, and of those, fewer provided anything of note. We later wondered if they were enchanted, if perhaps a second script was hidden, but at the time we possessed no knowledge of the Weave beyond what we taught.

That one letter changed everything, a letter written by Gorion's own hand, explaining my true parentage. It did not take us long to deduce that Imoen shared it. We were pawns in a much larger game, and Gorion had exposed me by snooping around Koveras. I was now the decoy, while Imoen was to remain hidden we concluded, but neither one of us was having it. Long before the letter we had sworn an oath to remain loyal to one another, no matter what we found.

Gorion's letter, blunt, even terse, outlined that I was the product of the dead god Bhaal, spawned sometime before his final years, and there were many others who shared this linage. Gorion suspected Korevas of being one of 'the Children', aware of our dark father.

The Time of Troubles ended ten years ago, a time when the gods walked the realms as mortals. Bhaal, as Alaundo predicted, foresaw his own death, and sought to reclaim his life and place of divinity. As a mortal, Bhaal travelled with two others, coming upon an existing god and splitting his profile into three. Bhaal's was that of murder and thus, I, Koveras, and Imoen were the progeny of murder.

On that day, I realised that Kelemvor, who ruled the city of the dead, was my foe. The other gods did nothing to prevent this, but even upheld the Wall's existence, so they, too, were accountable.

As for the would-be assassin? I simply told him to believe in me. Wide-eyed, he promised he would, anything in exchange for his life. Not his life, I explained, while Imoen took up the dagger, but his soul. He didn't understand, but as the blade slid between his ribs, his choking breath, my hand over his mouth, rasped. Even as we pinned his arms beneath us his thrashing slowed, Imoen jerking the dagger free as he bled out. It was the first time we had killed, but we had saved him from a fate worse than death.

So began our mission. Together, we would bring down the Wall of the Faithless.


	3. Part 1, III

Gorion proved right in his fear. Korevas was one of the Children. Perhaps we acted sooner than he anticipated, but it was Imoen, not I, that put an end to him. The very same dagger that ended the brigand's life was found its mark in the depth of Korevas' neck from what Imoen later relayed. Korevas, in his usual meditation, sat, eyes shut, recanting the prophecies. Imoen, having pilfered her way through Gorion's things, crept through curfew, and Candlekeep's halls like a cat for years, simply came upon him. As most did, Korevas dismissed her, if he was even aware of her to begin with, and she struck.

The strangest thing happened. Korevas dissolved into golden dust, dust which glowed like fire before fading. It consumed his robe, his blood, everything. One moment there he was, and the next, according to Imoen, there was nothing.

Had our assailant not been within Korevas' baggage train, we might well have approached him and tried to reason with him, but how could we trust him to share our vision when there were assassins in his service? It was probable it was Korevas who placed those assassins there to begin with. I say 'assassins' because the brigand was not the last. Even as Imoen was dealing with Korevas, another crossed my path, only this time, I was ready.

It is amazing the sort of thing someone will agree to, especially if you notice them following you and they do not notice your noticing. Luring him into the barracks of the Watchers, the guards of Candlekeep's high walls, I went to where I knew Fuller kept his crossbow, and naturally, having watched the guards load and reload a thousand times, I took aim, waiting for my stalker, and once he opened the door, dagger in hand, I loosed. You see, it took him a few seconds to adjust from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the barracks, a gloom I was already accustomed to. Did I feel remorse? Why would I? The dagger he held was twin to the one Imoen claimed, and I took the second for myself. It became something of a symbol, linking us.

As to the second would-be assassin? He was gut-shot. Hefting one of the spears from the barrack's weapons rack, I swiped the dagger from his hand as he lay crumped, groaning, staring, levelled it, and set it beneath his throat. I repeated the same question as I had to the first. Then I delivered the same answer.

Within hours of Korevas' disappearance, Gorion became spooked, and informed me we were leaving the sanctuary of Candlekeep for the unknown of the roads. Naturally, I informed Imoen as I complied, and our eyes met. Before we left, Imoen poisoned the evening stew. The infirmary kept a selection for the creation of antidotes, something that had always struck me as strange. We had to save as many as we could.


	4. Part 1, IV

The charge was led by a woman who surprised us all by identifying herself as 'Tamoko'. She claimed her lord had been murdered, that somehow, we were responsible, as evidenced by our flight, and she would avenge him and follow him into the next life.

With her were two ogres, and where she had got those from were quite beyond me, but perhaps they were mercenaries like the two hireling knives? Either way, Gorion's skill with the Weave put an end to the ogres and he turned his fury upon Tamoko. It was, however, something of a deadlock, and neither one could gain the upper hand. A single distraction was all it took, and Gorion crumbled, his left ribs crushed. It was also in that moment that my spear, 'borrowed' from the Watchers, a thing no one questioned, for we 'kids of Candlekeep' were forever running fetch errands, pierced the woman's armpit. All armour had its weaknesses, or so the Gatewarden liked to tell us and the Watchers, and Tamoko's was no exception. It was as if my spear had a will of its own, guided by some inner will of my own, and it slid in with a soft crunch. It was enough to force the woman to the ground. I told her to believe in me, and as our eyes met, she understood: she had followed the wrong lord. I could have spared her, but how could I have trusted her? As it was, while I drove my spear in further, Imoen made her entrance and having circled around unseen, she squatted down and opened up Tamoko's throat. It might not have been the end the woman wished for, but we each felt something as she died; a tiny pinprick. She had believed and now her soul was safe.

Then we turned to Gorion, his beleaguered breathing, the shock and horror at the words I issued at Tamoko. Of course we knew. Both of us. And we told him to believe too. We might have restored him with healing potions long enough to have taken him back to Candlekeep, but the evening meal was already consumed. Instead, we granted a swift end, our daggers almost tender as we cradled him into what awaited beyond.


	5. Part 1, V

With Gorion's passing, our eyes met. Imoen suggested we head somewhere we wouldn't be expected. Mutually, we decided upon Gullykin, near the ancient elven bridge of Firewine. We would formulate our next move from there. Gullykin was out of our way, with the Friendly Arm Inn and Beregost town being much nearer, but if Tamoko had sent word ahead, there could be more assassins out there. In a few months, we decided, the assassins would be gone. We could afford to wait even if the realms could not.

_End of Part 1_


	6. Part 2, I

**Part II**

In the months that followed, we heard the news that a new Grand Duke and Duchess had ascended within the city of Baldur's Gate. Rieltar and Cythandria Anchev, the father of the recently deceased Sarevok Anchev, who met his end some months before at the hands of Amnish agents.

The journey to Gullykin was not without incident, but we were able to reach Gullykin despite the braying wolves, brigands, torrents of rain, mud, bouts of upset tummies and sniffles. Sipping healing potions went only so far.

Imoen, of course, flinched Gorion's spellbook; he had no further need of it. I wondered about taking the heads of the ogres as deterrents to any who came upon us but as Imoen so rightly pointed out, we had no way to preserve them and it wouldn't be long before they stank. So instead, we took their teeth. We could have stripped Tamoko of her armour, but bandits were drawn to iron like flies to a corpse, so we left it, along with the dead, to the wolves.

The 'Iron Crisis' as it was named was a footnote in history. It lasted for around a year. A shortage of iron saw bandits swarm to the region, and almost a year on, it ended abruptly, as the mercantile company 'The Iron Throne' shipped in a steady supply of ingots and got fat off the profits. That act saw Rieltar and Cythandria Anchev soar to their new thrones, and the new influx of iron allowed guards to be hired and the brigands driven off.

With its resolution, we decided to leave the warmth of the hearths of Gullykin and return to the rest of the world. Gullykin's people, I admit, I was loathed to leave, for their welcome for two weary travellers was far beyond anything we could have expected. Even with the small amount of gold we claimed from Gorion, Tamoko and the ogres, we left the halflings of Gullykin with most of our purse intact.

Over the course of time on the halflings' earthen floors in their rounded, thatched shacks, I wondered why Imoen would go along with this, but she never gave me cause to doubt her. Perhaps she believed as ardently as I did, or perhaps she simply trusted me? In any event, it was she who began the cult in Gullykin, not I, promising an afterlife of 'hearth and home'. The picture she painted was so complete, so warm that even after everything, I was still drawn to it. Gullykin reformed, an eternal idyll, as peaceful as it was homey. That was something we all longed for. We might not ever be able to put an end to the demons and devils, but if we could take our sire's realm as our own, we could at least provide a safe haven even if we were unable to bring down the Wall of the Faithless. If we could claim all the souls, the other gods' power would diminish.

In my dreams, I saw the spray of crimson, the pooling ichor, the twisted, cold face of death: Gorion, Tamoko, those two brigands… I even saw our 'brother'. Perhaps they were all waiting in our sire's realm for us.


	7. Part 2, II

Beregost, the town we had once taken such pains to avoid, was a ghost town in the process of rebuilding. The Iron Crisis had taken a great toll on the townsfolk and at some point, brigands had actually raided the town smithy. I can't say that I was entirely surprised given Beregost's lack of walls, but it seems the Flaming Fist contingent took heavy causalities as did the townsfolk themselves when torches went awry, either deliberately or in the chaos. Half the town was a burnt-out ruin, while the other half saw scaffolds erected and frenzied workgangs. It was the strangest sight.

The smell was appalling and nothing like Gullykin. If there were sewers, they were long since clogged and the streets were clad in vile filth. Beregost was only ever intended as a quick stop, but Imoen and I exchanged glances, and, in that moment, we knew what had to be done. Thus, we set about establishing the cult, or rather, Imoen did. We determined to stay together lest any more of our siblings encounter us; isolated, we had less chance of victory.

Perhaps I should mention that we journeyed alone. We considered, very seriously, bringing along a few of the younger halflings but in truth, they were better off where they were. Imoen, having deciphered more of Gorion's spellbook, had grasped a simple communication incantation and taught it to our disciples. As for me, I drilled with the spear and dagger in secret, allowing my mind to roam as I trained my body. I might never be a great warrior, but somehow, the knowledge seemed to flow through me, opening up deep from within. I cannot say how or why, only that the same seemed to happen with Imoen with the Weave. It was as though anything we put our hand to in the service of Murder opened up and was ours for the taking.

I took a dozen of our followers into my confidence, and though none of them were great warriors either, I taught them the basics, basics I had learnt from the Watchers of Candlekeep.

In Beregost, we started over. It was the same. Imoen befriended others in the tavern, while I kept watch. We both set our sights on various marks, those who might aid or hinder us, those open to what we offered. Bit by bit, we drip-fed our vision and faster than we could have imagined, the weary and desperate of the realms flocked to us. Of Beregost's two hundred or so souls, twenty three joined with us. Imoen's great draw was the promise that those who had lost their lives to Murder belonged to Murder and thus, those who joined us could see their loved ones. There would be opposition, and others would hunt us, but she was smart. Everyone swore a blood oath upon initiation; all were sworn to secrecy, invitation only, and there were ranks. We came with knowledge, with promises, and with power. We backed up our words with an intensity, an earnestness, and people were desperate to believe. There were the sceptics, of course, and traitors, but we dealt with both.

The traitors Imoen had already established and knowing they would betray us gave us an opportunity. For those loyal and disloyal, we sent in pairs, on missions, while maintaining a core presence. They would spread the word. The halfling conclave was a secret, and they, too, had their own task: to dig out an enclave for when times were rough.

Making an example out of the traitors in the worst possible way, Imoen denied them access to the vision of hope that would have awaited. Instead, there was a clause in the blood oath that saw them forsake all gods and beliefs; in denying us, they denied Murder, and thus, were condemned to the Wall of the Faithless. Perhaps in a way, this was murder, but with the powers of our dead sire, Imoen was able to offer a vision as they were absorbed by the Wall. Real or not, it shocked the others, but only one pleaded for mercy on their behalf. We told the group that should we be successful, we would tear down the Wall, and those who were still there would have the opportunity to join us. There was yet hope, if we could achieve our goals in time.


	8. Part 2, III

The Smithy in Beregost seemed to be doing extremely well, with perhaps a quarter of the demand for nails and other metalwork coming through it. It might have been more but the head smith was slain during the bandit raid and only three forge-hands survived. It seemed natural that Imoen would plant at least three of our new collective there and another four within the two remaining taverns. With that, we moved on.

The Friendly Arm Inn was not at all what I expected. Its burgeoning walls stood in a state of disrepair, its great tower keep badly in need of fresh mortar, and its grounds were a veritable fairground of tents and shacks. The shanty town that had sprung up was mostly refugees and no doubt, a few bandits, unable to afford the inn's rates, but instead paying their way in labour. It was pitiful and the stench was worse than Beregost.

It, too, provided a breeding ground for our vision. The inn itself was not as full as I would have suspected, but those that filled its halls ranged from uppity merchants to snotty nobles, most of whom were lacking in coin as well as manners. The Iron Crisis had bankrupted many. And so we began again. We remained for almost a month before heading onto the Gate. It was the same as before. Our collection of coin grew but the need to feed our people saw it dwindle. With the messaging spells, Imoen coordinated all three communes and our missionaries. We remained nameless, and we both adorned hoods, her hair dyed a deep shade of crimson, my own as dark as the night sky.

We sent four teams ahead to prepare the way for us in the Gate, but the Gate was a rough place and we lost all but one of our members. They will be remembered, for they wait for us in that place. Death is not the end. That place is one we spent an increasing amount of time attempting to connect to. We formed it in our minds, with faith, through visions, tapping into our sire's latent power, the power that runs through us. Slowly, we began to make it real. With each passing day, the reality grew.

By the time we crossed the bridge across the river and stood at the doors to the city of Baldur's Gate, our people had established a fourth commune in the frontier mining town of Nashkel, where the troubles surrounding the Iron Crisis were said to have begun. Our people communed with Imoen, and Imoen spoke to the would-be acolytes, initiating more and dispelling the scepticism. The routine remained the same. We felt ourselves growing in power and the crusade gained a life of its own.

It was not long before we were able to arm our people with blades modelled on the daggers our brother had once given to bring about my own demise. It was fitting. The day would come when our people would strike, but only a few knew of it.

Upon entering the city, we headed for the most dilapidated, the roughest region, our cloaks shrouding us. We went alone, despite the pleas of our followers, and we were set upon. My spear spilt blood that day, and four of the five ruffians were given a chance to swear allegiance and join our cause. Only one of them did; the rest tried to flee but there was only one second chance: that chance would be when we tore down the Wall of the Faithless. Until then, no one who was not initiated could know. Imoen's magic surged, striking them down with the most basic of spells. It was the tip of my spear, my dagger, that silenced them.

You must understand that subtly was our true ally; she could have torn the life from out of them, but then what? How many eyes watched the little exchange down the back alley streets as they opened up near the docks? Sometimes, the best placed strike is the one no one notices, one lost in a crowd.


	9. Part 2, IV

It was not a month but three tendays when others began to come to us. In Baldur's Gate, we shifted tactics. Word of who we were began to get about, whispers, and for the first time, we did not take the vision to others. There were many who came to us, including paladins of other faiths, prepared to strike us down. We would not risk war with the other gods yet, so we simply vanished. We became as shadows and try though they might to infiltrate our ranks, they never found anything.

One of our teams had infiltrated as far south as Athkatla. We were, of course, on the watch for our other siblings, and rumours of the destruction they began to wreak slowly filtered up north. This particular team infiltrated the Copper Coronet and the ranks of slavers, pirates who operated both on land and at sea. Quietly, they spread word to the slaves and as a sign of our goodwill, we promised them the chance to win their liberty. By now, the cache of arms we gathered had grown and our little plane had materialised. While only I and Imoen could reach it, we were establishing its hold with each passing hour, and soon, we were able to open a door between us, the plane, and the slaves. Through it, we sent the shipment and the ensuing bloodbath transformed the slums of Athkatla. It spread like wildfire. It did not stop with the slaves but reached the downtrodden and a great uprising took place, the first of the crusade.

Our people were surrounded, hemmed in by the city guard, by the cowled wizards, and it seemed that all was lost. We pulled most of them through, leaving only the dead behind. In a day, it was over. Much of the poorer district and the bridge across Athkatla's river, were torched. The Paladins of the Order of the Radiant Hart stormed the slums and the criminal syndicate that resided there, the so-called 'Shadow Thieves of Amn' fearing a three frontal assault struck out in desperation instead of melting away. The bloodshed was terrible by all accounts. From what we later learnt, it was a single cell of Shadow Thieves that chose to strike and plunged the rest of the guild into an enduring war. We also heard that the Shadow Thieves were already engaged in an underworld war with a shadowy foe we had no knowledge of. It mattered little beyond the devastation and those who fought for our cause because heroes overnight. Their legend spread and some within Athkatla despised them but many others joined. We could feel their faith bolstering us.

Within the Gate, our numbers slowed to a trickle for the prosperity brought about by the Iron Throne had reversed the fortunes of many and they were afraid to lose what they had. It was of no matter. Imoen and I both knew such things could not last. It was time we infiltrated the higher society and that was where we went. Yet, before that account is revealed, I should note some of those who joined us: a girl, the daughter of a duke, who at first did not believe, but after slipping and snapping her ankle, we took her in. She was curious and had come to determine whether or not we were sincere. From my hand, I restored her ankle, as I focused on the life energies all around me, energies that I could snuff out. Instead, I tapped into our sire's latent power and used it to heal. Even Imoen looked impressed, and then we showed her the vision.

Another found her way to us, brought in by the missionaries to Athkatla. An elf without wings who had given herself to one of the gnomist gods; we claimed her as our own, and while we could not fully return her wings, I removed the scars and crusted stumps, and Imoen took her on as her acolyte. The elf already had some small knowledge of the Weave, but after conferring with Imoen, we proposed another sort of magic. We believed it might be possible to return her wings, but the amount of faith it would take was beyond her. Her faith would need to grow, and we would, I promised, try to restore what had been lost. Even if she could not have it in this life, she would have them in the next.

But for Imoen, that was not enough. Aware that it might fail, she contacted all of the communes and instructed all of them to believe. If it worked, she would become the herald for our crusade, a symbol of our faith. When it failed, the elf was crushed, despondent, but gathering her into my arms, I carried her into our plane and showed her what our vision, our faith, had wrought. There, we tried again. It wasn't enough. Gathering everyone, we entered the plane, and there, as one, their faith bolstered us, Imoen's hand upon my shoulder, the stricken elf in my arms, and before us, our faith was rewarded.

Shining like the brightest stars of the night, she uncurled, stretching out her arms and legs. Shimmering in the hue of the fires that swept the northern skies, wings burst forth. From her foetal position, she rose, unclad as a newborn, and there, she stretched out her restored wings, tears streaming down her face.

Everyone rejoiced. I glanced at Imoen, who smiled back at me. It was working.


	10. Part 2, V

Such joy was not to last, and when the elf's faith faltered, so did her wings and she crashed to the ground, her wings lost to her. Back in the Gate, she wept bitterly, but as before, I gathered her into my arms, holding her to my shoulder and I stepped back into our plane. There, I initiated her into the final, upper echelon of our faith. There, in that place, she vowed to uphold us with her loyalty and life, giving herself to the crusade utterly. With that determination, her hazy wings returned, becoming more solid until finally, they were as real as the rest of her. Staring at me in wonder, she questioned if they would stay; with a smile, I pinched her and she recoiled, then haltingly her lips lifted. Hesitantly, she stepped out of the plane with me, her eyes clenched tight as we returned to the realms. Once again, her wings flickered, but this time, they held.

Calmly, I cautioned her that here, on the material plane, faith would determine whether or not she retained them; in our plane, we could sculpt and return much. It was not just a warning to her, but to others. She and the duke's daughter, who Imoen also took into the fold, became fast friends, drawing close to one another and together, the four of us entered high society.


	11. Part 3, I

**Part III**

By now, we had gained many followers but lost over a third to brigands, war, rivalries and petty jealousy. Only a handful had forsaken us, but those that remained grew strong. Although we could not gather everyone into the plane often, we took in members of each commune when needed, especially for the sick who could not afford to go to the temples. Through belief and my own power, I healed many. Those who were steadfast remained healed upon their return, but some wavered and perished. There were a few I was unable to mend, and these we consigned to tending the plane itself. There, they were sustained, and gradually, they built the houses of Gullykin, a great circle of stone, the centre of which became hearth and home.

We knew there would be reprisals, that the followers of other gods would soon strike, as would our siblings, if they ever caught wind of us, and so we did our best to prepare. We made contact with some of our rivals; Imoen did not murder them, but instead we offered non-aggression pacts. When these were turned down, as we expected, we used our plane to strike at them, insidious, swift, silent assaults where we simply opened a doorway and loosed barrels of oil and lanterns. No grand gestures, no flashy statements, just 'accidents'. We did not know our rivals' headquarters, but we did not need to. With the magic of Gorion's spellbook to guide her, Imoen had learnt to shroud herself most aptly, mask the doorway as a wall, and the barrels simply rolled through. We could have opened up a portal to the elemental plane of fire or flooded the city with water but that would lead back to us. It was our intention to free everyone not turn the realms against us.

While this was happening, Skie, daughter of Duke Entar Silvershield, one of the four Grand Dukes of the Gate, instructed us on etiquette. With her connections as a socialite, we gained entry with ease and it was not long before we met with Grand Duchess Cythandria, wife of Rieltar Anchev, rumoured former lover of Sarevok Anchev, who we later learnt wore another name: Koveras.


	12. Part 3, II

The Grand Duchess was an interesting woman. At once she seemed disinterested, cool, even bored, but her eyes missed nothing. She instantly recognised us for who we were, what we were, and those eyes widened momentarily. In silks that matched her emeralds, she lazed, her porcelain skin so smooth as to be as unblemished as any elf's, her sweeping hair adorned with gems. She should have taken my breath away, but something inside me tightened. As if aware of this, her perfect lips lifted in the smallest of smiles. There was something almost pouty about those lips, full, lush, but hidden behind them were pearly teeth that could have torn one's throat out.

Since leaving Candlekeep, Imoen had grown and not just physically. In Gullykin, she had filled out, perhaps because of the halflings' rich food, and held her own as a woman and not as a girl. Her youthful glow was offset by her eyes, an intensity, and perhaps weariness, held there. Most of all, she was calm. Her limbs had hardened, toned from our practicing the dagger, her mind sharpened by her study of the Weave. That same sort of mark, the practiced discipline that came from controlling the Weave, was present on Cythandria, though it was subtle.

I expected resistance, betrayal, seduction, something. I did not expect Cythandria to kneel before us, setting aside her emerald-studded tiara, and prostrating. I was surprised she did not fall out of her gown, but she was the height of elegance; there was nothing simpering about her. I felt Imoen tense, and before I could place my hand upon her wrist, hers found mine. While Skie gawked and Aerie, the winged elf, cowled, stood back, I couldn't help but question what the Grand Duchess wanted.

I anticipated a sob story, some tragic tale, or how her life was in danger, how Grand Duke Rieltar neglected her, how perhaps she carried his heir, or even our brother's. I expected as soon as our backs' were turned, she would strike.

The Grand Duchess was not without her own means, and Cythandria was far from blind. When neither one of us invited her to speak, she held her tongue, and the silence lengthened. Finally, Skie, whose impatience showed her youth demanded what the woman was doing. Ignoring her with a grace that made Skie lose fifteen years in social currency, she locked eyes on us, and I turned my hand over.

So it began.


	13. Part 3, III

Sarevok was the one Cythandria invested in, the one who would succeed our sire, the new lord of Murder. When his end came, it was unexpected, abrupt, and threw all of Cythandria's dreams into ruin. For a long while, she wondered if she was with child, and each night had toyed with the vial that would purge her womb. When she learnt of our arrival in the city, she knew it was only a matter of time before we came for her. She had chosen to face us, align herself with us, for she had heard reports from her agents of our cause. She did not believe at first, thinking it was misdirection, a scam to feed the ignorant masses. We were just another Sarevok, but then, she watched and kept watch. Sarevok would never have taken in the masses and even if he had, he never would have healed them. Cythandria had heard the tales of the wingless elf, of the sickened baby, the woman stricken with the gimp leg, all those the temples turned away.

She did not believe it until she sent one of her own to infiltrate our movement. The servant, she instructed, was to run afoul of one of the local gangs, to be severely beaten, and crawl towards us.

We knew of this, for his allegiance became transparent when he undertook the blood oath within the plane. But his eyes had seen the vision, and he returned to his mistress, not to betray us, but to try to convert her. Troubled, the Grand Duchess spent restless nights, aware that the Bhaalspawn of the South were growing in strength. Finally, she decided she would take her chances. Sarevok had not been kind to her, discarding anyone he tired off. While she had enjoyed his affections and even his vices, she knew one day he would discard her, and like his foster father, Rieltar, he had an unhealthy penchant for strangulation. Without flourish, she revealed her back, stating simply she had not quaffed the vial her husband left out for her each day after their nightly activities.

Rieltar was as cruel as his adopted son from the story her back told. Perhaps she enjoyed it in the moment, perhaps not. Either way, she wished, for her own reasons, not to be consigned to the Wall of the Faithless and did not believe that she would serve another god. Instead, if we would permit her a place, she would take the oath but live life on her terms.

Imoen bristled.

Almost tenderly, I reached out and took the Grand Duchess' hand. Holding her eyes in my own, I denied her and informed her that if she and her child wished to live, she would abide by the same ruling as everyone else, or she could join her former lord in murder's grasp.

I doubt anyone had ever said 'no' to her before. For the first time in months, Imoen wore a grin, even if it was tinged with a sick, smug satisfaction as Cythandria recoiled. I expected her to start uttering curses; instead, she pressed her lips to my hand. Imoen caught my eye with a raised eyebrow. More softly I reached down and murmured a second denial, a denial that saw the blood drain from her face. Ashen, she bowed her head and within moments, we had her in the plane. I have to admit, she cut a tragic figure, the paragon of grace and elegance.

Later Imoen asked what I had relayed to her. I simply replied that beautiful as she was, she could understand why I wouldn't take my brother's woman – after all, there was a place for him when we were done.


End file.
